The Oracle

by Clive Cussler

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Up ahead.”

  “That’s an unusual parking spot.” Remi opened the glove box, pulling out her gun. “Shall we investigate?”

  Walking up to a car in the dark was a good way to get killed. “Let’s drive by, see what happens.”

  “Brilliant plan,” Lazlo said.

  “Spoilsports,” Remi said.

  Sam continued past, his headlights sweeping across the car as they approached the curve—too quick to make out much more than two men sitting inside. “I wonder if those are our friends from the market.”

  “The kidnappers from the hotel?” Remi fingered her gun. “Wish I’d got a better look.”

  The vehicle pulled out the moment they drove past. “You might get a second opportunity. They’re following us … Better duck, Lazlo. Never know what might happen.”

  Lazlo slunk down in his seat. “Remind me again why I decided to tag along?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Wisdom does not come overnight.

  – SOMALI PROVERB –

  Sam checked the rearview mirror as he drove down the hill, leaving the olive groves behind. So far, the dark-colored SUV was keeping its distance. “Why follow us? If it’s the same two who tried to kidnap you and Renee, it’s not like they don’t know which hotel we’re staying at.”

  Remi looked over at him and cocked her head toward the backseat and Lazlo. “If that’s supposed to make us feel better, it doesn’t.”

  “Just stating a fact.”

  Lazlo cleared his throat. “There’s a lot of empty highway between here and the hotel. Maybe you could drive a bit faster?”

  “Remi,” Sam said, ignoring him. “There’s something incredibly wrong about all this.”

  “Besides the fact we’re being chased by kidnappers?”

  “Nigerian kidnappers, Tunisian kidnappers. What does any of it have to do with Warren and the embezzled money?”

  She pulled her attention from the side-view mirror to look at him. “I’m not sure this is the time to worry about any inconsistencies. They’re gaining on us.”

  “Make sure your seat belts are buckled tight.” Sam hit the gas pedal. The Audi RS shot forward, leaving the other car far behind. There was no way the SUV could match their speed on the curves without rolling over. Even so, he didn’t relax until they reached the city, then the hotel, where security had been beefed up to quell the fears of the other guests after the earlier kidnapping attempt.

  As they strolled past the armed guards at the front entrance, Sam took Remi’s arm and looked at Lazlo, saying, “You have to admit, no one’s getting past the guards in the lobby.”

  Remi smiled at the uniformed men as Sam held the door for her and Lazlo. “Back to the ‘something incredibly wrong’ thing,” she said as they crossed the lobby toward the elevator. “Exactly what do we have wrong?”

  “The order of everything.” He pressed the elevator button. The door opened and they stepped on. “Like I said before, I think it all started here. Someone here contacted Makao and his gang.”

  Remi looked at him as they rode up to the top floor. “Warren? But he’s dead.”

  “Yes,” Lazlo said. “But that doesn’t mean he didn’t start this nightmare. Only that he’s not the one finishing it. And if anyone wants my opinion, I quite suspect that he didn’t fall. Nor did he kill himself. It’d be nice to know what evidence they have.”

  “Exactly,” Sam said. “I’m worried that doesn’t bode well for Dr. LaBelle.”

  Remi glared at him. “This is all your fault, Fargo.”

  “How’s it my fault?”

  “None of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t discovered that someone was skimming money.”

  “I distinctly recall you helping me.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have had I’d known Renee might get arrested. I’m not letting my friend go to jail for something she didn’t do. You need to do something.”

  Lazlo pulled his key card from his wallet. “As knackered as I am, I’ll let you two work out the details. I’m going to bed.”

  “Good night, Lazlo,” Remi said as he continued down the hall. She turned back to Sam, her green eyes troubled. “So how are you going to fix this?”

  Sam put the safety lock on the door behind them and took out his phone, saying, “Renee doesn’t need me to fix this. She’ll need an attorney.”

  “And where are you going to find one of those at this hour?”

  “I’m not. But I’ll bet Rube has a connection at the U.S. embassy who can help until we do find one.”

  As promised, rube set up a meeting with an official from the embassy, Brian Torres, at a coffeehouse not too far from the police department. The solemn-faced official was there when the Fargos, Lazlo, and Renee arrived.

  “Thanks for coming at such short notice, Mr. Torres,” Sam said.

  “As requested, I was able to make a few inquiries into the nature of why the police are interested in seeing Dr. LaBelle. Why don’t we sit?”

  As they walked toward an empty table, Renee leaned toward Remi and, lowering her voice, said, “Are all embassy officials this serious?”

  “I think it’s in the contract.”

  Once they were seated, Renee said, “I’m assuming, Mr. Torres, that this is all routine and my friends are being overcautious.”

  He showed no emotion. “In this case, their instincts are correct. The police believe that Warren Smith was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” She stared at him a moment. “Who would do that?”

  “Possibly someone who had a grievance with him. I’m sorry to say, Dr. LaBelle, they believe that person is you.”

  “Me? But …”

  “They plan to arrest you when you arrive at the police station. I will, of course, accompany you.”

  Renee gripped the tabletop. “Why would anyone think I killed him? We were friends.”

  Sam said, “They must have some sort of evidence beyond a suspicion?”

  “Her prints,” Torres replied. “On the murder weapon.”

  “What murder weapon?” Remi asked. “I thought he fell.”

  “He did. After he was stabbed with a chisel.” Torres focused on Renee. “The chisel was found beneath his body. Any chance you know how your fingerprints ended up on it?”

  “I picked it up.”

  “When?” he asked.

  “After I discovered someone removed Echo’s face from the floor.”

  “The police didn’t take the chisel for evidence?” Remi asked.

  “I didn’t find it until after they left. I was more worried about the damage to the mosaic. I just picked it up. I wasn’t thinking it would be used for murder the very next day.” She turned toward Torres. “So, how do I get out of this?”

  “You don’t. At least, not the arrest. But our presence will go a long way in making sure you’re taken care of and treated fairly. It helps that you’re known and respected in the community.”

  Remi moved her chair closer, placing her hand on top of Renee’s. “I’m sure it’ll all get cleared up soon. We’ll get the best attorney we can.”

  She nodded, her lips tremulous. “Thank goodness you’re both here.”

  “We’re not leaving Tunisia until we get to the bottom of it. Right, Sam?”

  “No. Definitely not. What’s our next step?” he asked Torres.

  “Think like a prosecutor. Figuring out the motive is a good start.”

  “What about the embezzlement?” Renee said. “The money we think Warren stole from the archeological dig.”

  “Which,” Torres said, “must have made you angry when you found out.”

  “Of course it did.”

  “Angry enough to kill him?”

  “No.”

  “That’s what the police think. My point, Dr. LaBelle, is that once you find out why someone wanted Warren dead, you’ll be that much closer to figuring out who murdered him.” He looked at Sam. “After talking with Rubi
n Haywood last night, I have a feeling that this is where I need to excuse myself and give you some privacy.”

  “I’ll wait with you,” Lazlo said. “I could use a bit of fresh air.”

  “Privacy for what?” Renee asked Sam.

  He waited until the two men walked out the door. “When it comes to finding answers, sometimes the most expedient route isn’t necessarily the most legal route. Especially if the police are involved.”

  Renee slumped back in her chair. “I can’t let you two risk everything you’ve built …”

  “Too late.” Remi gave her hand a squeeze, then looked at Sam. “Let’s call Selma and see what she’s put together for us.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Ears are usually uninvited guests.

  – AFRICAN PROVERB –

  While Sam called Selma, Remi consoled her friend, wishing she had a way to reassure her that all would be well. “I think Sam’s right. There’s no way Warren’s murder is about the embezzled money.”

  Before Renee could comment, Sam placed the phone on the table so the three of them could hear and see Selma on the video call. “No doubt,” Sam said, “our untimely arrival in Tunisia might’ve put a damper on whatever they were after.”

  Selma agreed, saying, “Even Lazlo thinks there’s something more to this dig.”

  Remi concurred. “He has a nose for these things.”

  “If we’re lucky,” Selma continued, “one of those invoices you found belongs to the missing piece of mosaic. Find that mosaic, you might find out who’s behind this.”

  “What invoices?” Renee asked.

  “In this case,” Sam said, “the less you know—”

  “I’m going to be arrested for murder, so if given the choice between the expedient route and the legal route …”

  “Point taken.” He told her about the midnight visit to the antiquities shop.

  Renee listened intently. “That sounds like the same place that Hank went to look for the mosaic. It was already sold by the time he got there. What I don’t understand is what led you there?”

  “It was actually Remi and—”

  Remi, not wanting to add to Renee’s burden by implicating Amal, kicked Sam’s foot and said, “It was supposed to be a surprise. We wanted to find Echo so you could get the mosaic repaired. Right, Sam?”

  “Right,” he said, recovering quickly. “The invoices are all antiques and art houses.”

  “And what?” Renee asked. “You’re just going to walk in and ask them?”

  Remi smiled. “In a roundabout way.”

  Renee’s brows rose as she looked from Remi to Sam. “How long have you been planning this?”

  “Since last night,” Remi replied. “Selma put together a legend for us, like the spies use. I can’t wait to see what she’s come up with. Auction house? Buyer for a museum?”

  “Or,” Selma said, “Mr. and Mrs. Longstreet, a well-to-do husband and wife in search of the perfect antique.”

  “Longstreet,” Remi said on hearing her maiden name. “Has a certain ring to it, don’t you think, Renee?”

  Sam moaned, then asked Selma, “You couldn’t come up with a better name?”

  “Smith was taken.”

  Sam gave a mock sigh. “There’ll be no living with her over this. So, Selma, who are the Longstreets this time around?”

  “Since we had some good success with your import/export business when you were searching for the Gray Ghost, I tapped into that website and changed it up a bit, moving you from Texas to Boston. This time, you’re searching for antiquities for your winter home in the South of France.”

  “Old money,” Remi said. “Always a good sign.”

  “In this case, the Longstreet fortune was made during Prohibition, smuggling alcohol, which is why you’re not averse to the bending of the rules—should they decide to search your names on the Web. By the way, I looked up each of the five businesses from the invoices. They all deal in questionable goods.”

  “Perfect,” Remi said. “We’re all about the gray area.” Her smile faded at the tension she saw in Renee’s face. Remi gave her a thorough hug. “You’ll be out in no time.”

  “Maybe not that soon,” Renee said. “But knowing you and Sam are here, and Mr. Torres will be with me when I turn myself in, I feel a whole lot better.”

  With Renee safely in the hands of the embassy, they got to work immediately. Lazlo played chauffeur, parking just out of sight—ready backup in case anything went wrong. They struck out on the first two locations. As Sam and Remi entered the third establishment, which billed itself as an art gallery, a young woman sitting at a mahogany desk looked up at them, her expression vacant. “Vous désirez, s’il vous plaît?”

  Remi’s demeanor was equally vacant as she perused the interior. Though French was one of the many languages she spoke fluently, she often found it useful to pretend she knew only English. “You were recommended by my interior designer,” she said and looked at the woman. “I was told that if I wanted authenticity, this was the place to visit.”

  The woman sized them up, no doubt trying to decide if they could afford to shop there. “One moment, please. I’ll get the manager, Monsieur Karim.” She disappeared down a hallway at the back of the store and returned about two minutes later with a white-haired man in a dark suit.

  He smiled at them both, then directed his attention to Sam. “May I help you find anything in particular?”

  “You’ll have to ask my wife. I’m just here to write the check.”

  “Of course. And so I may know whom I have the pleasure of assisting …?”

  “Sean Longstreet,” Sam said, “and my wife, Rebecca.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Please, come in, feel free to look around.” He followed them about the room as they stopped to admire figurine after figurine. “And where are you visiting from?”

  “Boston,” Remi said. “We were in Italy for business. My husband’s, of course. I came along for the shopping.”

  “What sort of business, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Sam said, “SRF Import/Export.”

  “Import/export.” Karim glanced at the young woman, who was waiting just outside the hallway near the back of the store, giving her the slightest of nods. After she left, he clasped his hands together, smiling. “And what brings you to Tunisia?”

  “A side trip,” Remi said, picking up a small statue of a satyr. “A friend of mine found some stunning antiques in your country. I’m hoping to find something equally stunning for my own home.” She returned the statue to the shelf and gave a disinterested look around the room. “I was hoping for something to hang on the wall.”

  “Perhaps something like this …” He led her toward the back of the shop, pointing to a large embossed copper plate mounted on a stand. “This one is a sublime example of a Roman charioteer, circa early seventeenth century.”

  Remi reached out, touching the small card set in front of it that listed the price at seventy-five hundred dinars, which put it over twenty-five hundred dollars. “It’s beautiful,” Remi said, “but not quite what I’m looking for.”

  “And what is it you’re looking for, madame?”

  “Something that will give the room more of an ancient Roman villa look. Rustic, but with a much needed pop of color.” She sighed. “Sadly, while in Italy we didn’t have time for a proper shopping trip and all we found were cheap reproductions.”

  “And your budget would be …?”

  “Budget?” Remi looked at him. “If I find the right piece, I’m willing to pay whatever it takes to acquire it. I don’t suppose you can recommend a shop that carries the rare, authentic pieces?”

  Sam, doing a splendid job of looking bored, frowned at his watch, then looked at Karim. “I hate to cut this short, but we’re under a time constraint. Is this all you have?”

  Karim hesitated the barest of instances. “Let me check to see if any of our new stock is ready for sale. Sometimes we set pieces asi
de for the more discriminating buyer. I’ll return shortly.” He walked to the hall. “Leila?”

  The young woman stepped out of the office. Remi moved closer, pretending interest in a nineteenth-century vase while listening to Leila telling him in rapid-fire French that her internet search brought up their import/export business and the profiles of its very wealthy owners.

  “C’est une bonne nouvelle,” he replied and turned their direction, his grin wide. “My assistant tells me we do have some items new to our inventory and not yet out on the floor. This way, please. I think you’ll find what you’re looking for back here.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  A man does not run among thorns for no reason;

  either he is chasing a snake or a snake is chasing him.

  – AFRICAN PROVERB –

  Monsieur Karim led Sam and Remi down the narrow hall to a room with a digital lock. He stood so that he blocked the keypad from their view as he entered the code. It clicked and he pushed the door open. “Perhaps you’ll find something in here more to your liking.”

  The Echo mosaic was set on a small easel to their left next to an Etruscan vase and numerous pieces of jewelry displayed on black velvet. Remi, however, turned to the right, leading Sam past several Roman busts on pedestals. She stopped to look at them and shook her head. “No,” she said, moving past. “I’m not sure I want them watching me.”

  She paused to look at a mariner’s brass astrolabe, then wandered over to the table, admiring the jewelry, finally stopping before the fragment of Echo’s face. “I love the vibrant colors in this mosaic. Is she anybody important?”

  “I believe, madame, that she is thought to be a wood nymph.”

  “It’s very charming.” She leaned in for a closer look. “You’re sure it’s genuine?”